


Mockingbird, Mockingbird, Quiet and Still

by splot



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Earthborn (Mass Effect), F/M, First Contact AU, First Contact War, Garrus doesn't know what to do with a human, Paragon Shep w an itty bitty Renegade streak, Slavery, Slow burn maybe ?, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect), more like unpaid indentured servitude w POWs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10643070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splot/pseuds/splot
Summary: "Commander, with all due respect, you've got a great pair o'knockers and it's a shame you gotta hide 'em." Michaels croons to Shepard's left."C'est la vie, Michaels. If there weren't regs, in another life, all that jazz."Whatever Michaels is about to say in response is lost in the sound of a klaxon and the flashing of red lights. Shepard's stomach drops through the floor as her heart climbs into her throat.They were under attack and ninety percent of her crew was sprawled drunk.--First Contact War AU, FemShepard/Garrus





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't own ME.  
> Samira is pronounced Sam-meer-ah. I know shit-all about military runnings and space flight. Born in Australia, moved to Canada when she was five, an accident resulting in the deaths of her parents, grew up on the streets of Vancouver with her brother.

_"Here's to Robbo, he's true blue. He's a piss pot through and through! He's a bastard, so they say! He tried to go to heaven but he went the other way he went down, down, down, down, ay!"_

Shepard laughs at the cheers of her crew, the drinking song she'd taught them having been sung at few crewmen tonight. They were nestled in a safe corner of the galaxy, safe enough from the Turians that they could unwind, barest hints of a skeleton crew keeping the Mockingbird going. Tomorrow they'd make a (probably suicide) attempt at sneaking through the Mass Relay to launch a surprise attack on a Turian ship attempting to make a drop on Demeter. The information had put wind in their hypothetical sails, though the higher-ups refused to pass down how they got it. It was rare they got the drop on the dinosaurs, but damn it if Samira Shepard wasn't going to try.

"Here's a question for ya-" Roberts slams his empty bottle down on the table, pulling a new one from the crate on the floor. "-whaddoya reckon, ten bucks says I'm right, but I think that _churians_ lay eggs."

A groan echoes around the room, and Shepard chuckles, taking a sip of her beer. She's been working on the same one for the past three hours. As Commander, she needed to keep a clear head in the unlikely even something happened.

"No, hear me out, oi!" Roberts continues as Llewellyn flicks a beer cap at his head. "Female Turians ain't got breasts. Mammals do."

"Roberts, I didn't know you majored in xenobiology." There are teasing laughs all around at Shepard's words. It's one of the reasons this crew does so well-their C.O. isn't afraid to mingle with them and treat them as friends and comrades Instead of lording over them in her superiority. "Cats don't have breasts, either. Sure, the females have nipples, but they're mammals. What's to say Turians don't fall under the same biology? It'd be a hell of a lot easier not having to strap 'em down."

"Commander, with all due respect, you've got a _great_ pair o'knockers and it's a shame you gotta hide 'em." Michaels croons to Shepard's left, twirling a strand of hair around her finger and fluttering her lashes, leaning on the two back legs of her chair. Drunk as she is, it just ends up being hilarious and they all fall about themselves in laughter.

"C'est la vie, Michaels. If there weren't regs, in another life, all that jazz." Shepard toes Michaels' chair with the tip of her boot, smirking when the sergeant flails and grabs the table to right herself.

Whatever Michaels is about to say in response is lost in the sound of a klaxon and the flashing of red lights. Shepard's stomach drops through the floor as her heart climbs into her throat. _They were under attack and ninety percent of her crew was sprawled drunk._

"Traynor, sit rep." Bottle forgotten as Shepard activates her omni-tool, hailing the communications manager of the skeleton crew.

"Short range EMP, took out most of our systems, including propulsion thrusters. Firing up a work around now, but ladar shows an approaching Turian vessel." The Specialist sounds deceptively calm, but Shepard's spent enough time with her to know that deceptively calm means internally panicked.

"Is it the vessel we were meant to be taking out tomorrow?" Shepard's running through scenarios, trying to determine how best to get her crew out alive.

"Unknown, Commander. Which course of action should we take?" Her drunken crew is trying to scramble themselves together, but she knows it's no use. With a steady curse of expletives, she turns to them.

"Get yourselves to the escape pods. None of you are in any condition to be fighting if we're boarded nor operate any of the battery weapons or systems. You'll wait there until I either give the all clear to come out or tell you to launch. Understood?"

She's met with a rumble of slurred _yes ma'am_ 's and _roger that_ 's as they file out the door.

"Traynor, anyone on skeleton familiar with the battery?" She leaves the lift for her incapacitated comrades, taking the maintenance ladders between decks instead.

"Jenkins, ma'am." Traynor replies after a moment, just as Shepard heaves herself out of the hatch.

"Good, send him to the battery and tell him to wait for my command. Who's our standby pilot?"

"Cortez, but he went down to the medbay with a stomach bug two hours ago." Traynor's flicking through the files as Shepard comes up behind her, frowning. "Awad is our next option but her test scores ranked better for transportation than aggressive encounters."

"Never mind that, I'll get in the pilot's seat, get the drive systems online." Shepard had slowly sipped a little more than a quarter of her beer over three hours. She really hoped it wouldn't impede her reaction time as she settled into the pilot's seat, logging on and switching off the autopilot. "You got internal communications back up?"

"Just about-- yes, it's up. You're live, Commander."

"This is Commander Shepard. We're currently in the trajectory of a Turian frigate that doesn't seem to be slowing, and it's unlikely they're coming 'round for tea." Shepard starts, one hand keeping the ship level, the other scrolling through a list of downed systems with a frown. "Everyone who was drinking tonight, anyone in the medbay or non-combat essential, I want you in an escape pod until either I give the all clear or tell you to launch. If I see even one person with a blood alcohol level above 0.00 handling a weapon or equipment, you're all getting grounded when we next dock. Jenkins, you better be in the Battery by now. Adams, work with Traynor to try and get our propulsions and FTL online so we can hightail out of here-let me know the minute it's back up. Shepard out."

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

 

Or perhaps a relatively short one, considering that it took all of twenty minutes for the shit to hit the fan. Shepard swears as she just narrowly ducks an exploding panel, clamping shut the last seals on her armour and slipping on her breather helmet as she shouts over the evacuation alarms at the frozen lieutenant, staring in fear at the cracks racing the hull. The frigate's weapons had cut through the Mockingbird's defenses like a warm knife through butter, and she'd given it all of ten precious minutes trying to salvage them before swearing a streak that'd make the Devil himself blush, slamming the evac alarms.

She and Traynor are the last ones on deck, the last ones into the pod. It's the only one left, the others already through the Mass Relay and on their pre-programmed path to Earth. Just one to go, Shepard, you can do it. Not one casualty so far.

"In, Traynor, move it!" Shepard pushes the specialist in first, following herself a moment later and slamming a fist on the airlock.

"Malfunction detected. Unable to launch."

The V.I.'s programmed pleasant voice sounds like a gong in her helmet, and Shepard swears, on her feet and out of the pod to rapidly tap at the console outside.

"Donnelly, how do I fix this?" She calls to the engineer. Drunk he may be, but he was surprisingly quick to move to the panel and, squinting in concentration, scanning through the information.

"It's a simple hotwiring job, Commander." He shouts over the explosions around them, Scottish brogue only slightly slurred. The explosions would be silent balls of fury once the pod left the mass effect field but as long as they remained attached to the Mockingbird, they'd be loud and dangerous. Donnelly hesitates, and Shepard is about to snap that they don't have time and the frigate is closing in, before speaking. "It has to be done from out here, but as soon as it's done the doors will snap shut."

Meaning no time for whoever's outside to make a quick leap in and escape. Shepard allows herself a brief moment to close her eyes, lips moving in a silent Hail Mary, before shoving Donnelly back into the pod, fingers pulling off the panel. "Talk me through it, Donnelly, what am I looking for?"

 _A captain will go down with her ship. Commander. Whatever._ In a heartbeat, she has the two wires she needs and it feels like a lifetime before she looks up. Traynor is watching her with wet eyes, but Shepard can't muster up a smile. She's going to die, but they're going to live. That's all that matters.

"Commander is there anyone waiting for you?" Traynor asks in a rush, leaning forward against her belt as though ready to jump out. Shepard lets a dry laugh drop from her lips.

"You've read my file, Traynor, you know the answer to that."

"There will be now." The conviction is almost believable, and Shepard indulges her with a nod, taking a deep breath and crossing the wires.

The airlock snaps shut and the pod unlatches, blasting towards the mass relay.

Shepard realizes a second too late that the airlock doors for the pod had shut, but not the Mockingbird’s, and all at once she's surrounded by staggering silence, her own ragged breathing, and endless stars as she’s sucked out with the sudden depressurization. There's a Turian frigate looming silently in the corner of her vision, but she closes her eyes, pretending she's back in anti-grav training for the N7.

It must be a good five minutes before she’s aware she’s stuck on a piece of debris. She can’t bring herself to care enough to open her eyes, at least, not until another piece knocks the first. It frees her, and she rolls her closed eyes to the silence. Not even her death could be problem free.

Its then she becomes aware of the quiet hissing. Her hands fly to the back of her head-- _fuck fuck fuck_ that's her oxygen tube, it must’ve been yanked out when she was dislodged, breathing is getting harder and she's trying not to panic but she can't get her hose to reattach, each gasping breath more painful than the last. Before her last breath, she thinks she sees a blue figure in the corner of her blackening vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes my dudes I am nervy about this. I've got the next chapter written up but I want to get a few done before I get ahead of myself and post willy-nilly then lose muse like my other fics. I've got no flippin' idea where this is headed or who the big bad is gonna be. If I've made any mistakes about military hierarchy (or Hierarchy Military, as it were, hahaahahha-ahem) pls let me know-- but be constructive about it. The only good criticism is constructive criticism. TANX BYE


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ll need to reattach the hose to the latch on the back of the helmet, you can’t miss it. Three full turns to the right. She can’t have much oxygen left in her tank but it should be enough to last her until I’m able to discern her state.” The new voice over the line startles Garrus, speaking in Galactic Standard rather than Turian, and there’s a moment of loud and aggressive chatter before Nyreen comes back on the line. “Sorry, Vakarian, the human took control of the comm. Reel the other one in before it dies.”
> 
> “Roger that, Kandros. Tell Kryik to keep his human in check.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beeboop I have no idea what I'm doing

"The last escape pod made it out, Commander. No casualties, no humans remain for capture." Nyreen Kandros Just barely keeps her voice neutral as she relays the information to Oraka, and the old Turian slams a fist on his console.

"We scattered them and took out their ship. It's not a total loss." Nihlus Kryik, X.O. shrugs, conversational despite the hubbub around him."If we're quick, we can put out the fires and see if there’s anything to salvage--"

"Wait! One survivor!" Nyreen interrupts, tapping her console rapidly to enhance the visuals and refine the data bursts. "Must not have made it to a pod We could reel it in from the portside airlock!"

"Vakarian, get to the airlock. We need this human alive. Kryik, the other human in the brig, the doctor, bring it up. If it's injured I want it fixed. This mission will not be fruitless." Everyone jumps at Oraka's orders, and where Garrus had been quietly minding his station in the CIC, he lets out a little sigh. _Figures_ , he joins the military after his compulsory service and gets stuck on shitty details like this. He should’ve just gone straight to C-Sec.

While he'd have liked to keep his old armour, his father insisted on buying him a new set, especially after he'd tried to catch a rocket with his face-- _no point in parading that broken tin around,_ Castis had sniffed. _Literally wearing your weak point on your sleeve._

Garrus had liked to think it was scaring enemies into believing he’d walk away from whatever they threw at him—after all, he’d walked away from much worse. He digs out the shiny new helmet from under his station, long legs clearing the bridge of the _Gauntlet_ in the few moments it takes him to slip on his helmet, adjust the contained-environment settings, and attach the tether to his hardsuit as he steps into the airlock.

“Better make it quick, Vakarian. Oxygen levels are low. From what I can tell, it looks like the human’s oxygen hose has disconnected. Should be easy to reattach. The human doctor says it’s going to need something called CPR if it stops breathing but I figure we can let the humans sort that out.” Nyreen’s voice filters through his comm as the depressurization cycles, interior airlock clamping shut as the exterior opens.

“I gather Nihlus is back on deck with his human?” Garrus asks, planting his boots on the side of the ship and kicking off in the direction of the tracker on his HUD.

“Just in front of the airlock, ready for the human as soon as you grab it.” He can feel more than hear the tether unreeling as he pushes aside pieces of debris. He can see the human now, flailing as it tries to grab the hose. He imagines he can hear the hissing of the oxygen escaping, though he knows that space is a vacuum—despite how the vids show space battles. _Blasto is still an embarrassment to anyone who’s actually served in an interstellar military._

“You’ll need to reattach the hose to the latch on the back of the helmet, you can’t miss it. Three full turns to the right. She can’t have much oxygen left in her tank but it should be enough to last her until I’m able to discern her state.” The new voice over the line startles Garrus, speaking in Galactic Standard rather than Turian, and there’s a moment of loud and aggressive chatter before Nyreen comes back on the line. “Sorry, Vakarian, the human took control of the comm. Reel the other one in before it dies.”

“Roger that, Kandros. Tell Kryik to keep his human in check.” Still, he's Turian enough to admit he appreciates the information as he finally nears the human _,_ its movements getting weaker by the second until they stop.

“Life signs fading fast, Vakarian, move that sweet ass.” Nyreen’s voice is calm in his ears, but her subvocals trill urgency, and Garrus can just picture Oraka breathing down her neck as they watch the display feeds from his helmet and the _Gauntlet’_ s external cameras.

“Moving.” He grabs the human around its surprisingly small waist, taking hold of the flailing hose and re-connecting it as Nihlus’ human had instructed. He doesn’t know whether it’s worked or not, but he activates the tether’s reel, pulling them both back in.

“Recompression initializing.” The V.I. pleasantly states. The process takes a few moments, and Garrus takes the time to observe the human. He’s never seen one up close before—not even the one they’d had in the brig, brought in while he was working on the battery.

This one was smaller than the information packets showed. He felt wrong dumping the unconscious human on the floor, small as it is, and so he keeps it cradled in his arms. The visor of its helmet is tinted darkly, but he’s curious as to what is under there. Would it be a snarling grimace baring their odd blunted teeth like the information packets had of the males? He’d seen so few of the females, though most of the images of the females showed cowering little wisps. He had no reference point if it was a female. Nihlus’ human had referred to it as a _she_. A universal term for a female. He supposed that meant the one in his arms was a female. One of its arms rests on its midsection, and he blinks as he realises it has five talons-- fingers-- on each hand. Humans are oddly like Asari. He wonders what colour this one will be.

The airlock opens, and Garrus is instructed to place the human on the floor. He does so surprisingly gently as a short figure barrels past, moving back to stand next to Nihlus and watch. The human doctor with the silver fringe ( _hair_ he thought it might be called) makes quick work of the seals on the other's helmet. There's a hiss of oxygen as it releases, weak as it is, and Garrus' subvocals thrum in curiosity before he can tamp it down, head cocking to the side.

On Garrus' first tour in his mandatory service, his ship had been tasked with dropping off a high security prisoner to a prison on Maitrum. Fresh out of the Academy, Garrus had remained on the cruiser as the shuttle departed, but he remembered looking out the window, seeing the swirls of pale brown earth in amongst the red and oranges of the planet. This human had skin the colour of those swirls. Its eyes are closed, and he doesn't quite understand what the thin brown stripes under its eyes are. Perhaps colony markings? They seem attached to its eyelids. The rest of its face is much like an Asari's. It has lips like an Asari's, the upper one a perfect bow, lower a thick complement to it _._  As the helmet slides off, it's fringe is revealed, bits and pieces of dark brown falling loose from the oddly textured lump on its head. He wonders if it's broken its fringe and subconsciously winces at the thought. Breaking one's fringe is painful.

A scandalised trill runs through the subvocals of the watching Turians as the doctor presses its fingers to the other human's neck. It must not realise the intimacy of the act, even as some Turians look away in disgust. Perhaps it has a different meaning to humans. Garrus watches on still. The doctor-human makes an odd _hmph_ noise, pawing at the seals on the chestplate of the human. He'd have been distracted by the odd shiny black skin or the two lumps on its chest had he not been more preoccupied watching the doctor-human. There's an odd tinkle of tin that could be passed off as the scrape of the chest plate hitting the floor, had Garrus not seen the doctor-human discreetly pocket something the other human had hidden in its chest plate.

Nihlus looks at him questioningly when his subvocals thrum in suspicion, but Garrus shakes his head. A silent communication-- _I'll tell you later._

* * *

 

_Not dead._

That's the first thing Samira Shepard realizes as she floats back into consciousness.

_Not dead or Hell makes us sleep on the floor in our undersuits._

Her head hurts like crazy, like when she'd have competitions with Jacob to see who could hold their breath longer while playing Space Soldiers--she'd lose, pass out, and wake with a hell of a headache and her father lecturing them for being reckless. She groans, bringing a hand to her head as she slowly blinks chocolate brown eyes open. The lights are too bright the first time, the walls too blue the second, but eventually, she gets her eyes all the way open, even if her vision is fuzzy.

She's in some sort of holding cell. The blue walls are see-through, though it's like looking through a thin wall of water. Stand close enough and she'll make out details, but from afar its basic shapes and colours. A forcefield, she realizes.

"Well, it's good to see motor skills aren't impaired. How are you feeling, Engineer Shepard?" The crisp British accent startles Shepard, and she whirls around to find the source. There's another woman in the cell with her, torn fatigues notably those of the Alliance Field Medics, hair cropped in a regulation silver bob.

"I’m fine, but why are you calling me Engineer?” She sits up with little difficulty, hand flying to her neck. She can feel her dad’s wooden rosary in the lumps beneath her undersuit, but she can’t feel her tags.

“Short-term amnesia, completely normal. Your tags were a little damaged, but I was able to make the basic gist of the word.” There’s a meaningful glance from the older woman to the guard outside the cell. Its then that Shepard notes its definitive _not-human_ shape. _Turian._ Her tags are pressed into her hand, and Shepard’s not sure how the other has managed it in captivity, but the CMDR has been scratched out. She nods in understanding, pulling it on to rest over the rosary.

“Right. Thank you, Doctor…?”

“Karin Chakwas. Another prisoner in this godforsaken ship, unfortunately.” The doctor sounds disapproving rather than angry—as though her disapproval alone will convince the Turians to let them go. It makes Shepard smile, fingers unwinding the braided knot and retying it neater, humming quietly.

“Any idea where they’re taking us?” She asks, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

“I don’t speak Turian, unfortunately.” Though the glint in the doctor’s eyes says differently. They don’t get a chance to talk much more, as a Turian steps up behind the holding cell’s forcefield, parade rest as he observes them. Neither Shepard nor Doctor Chakwas stand in response.

The Turian has dark plates, with bone-coloured colony markings (at least, that’s what Shepard assumed they were, if she was remembering the info packets correctly). There’s no way to tell the age of the alien, not without the giveaways like wrinkles and graying hair that humans have, but there’s an air about it ( _him?_ ) that says this definitely isn’t its first rodeo.

“Who are you?” The flanged voice is distinctly male as it speaks the Galactic Standard, beady amber eyes directed at Shepard, and the Commander gives an undignified snort in response. Chakwas gives her a look that is thinly veiled amusement disguised as chastisement.

“Engineer Samira Shepard.” Shepard eventually responds, fingers twisting together and fidgeting- an attempt to make herself lesser. As Commander, she’d worn a proud stature that demanded the respect of those following her. An engineer wouldn’t have to posture such.

“How does an Engineer have access to a suit better designed for combat?” The Turian doesn’t believe her. She lowers her head, flicking a glance at Chakwas. She needs to make him believe she’s not important.

“When the breach warnings sounded we all grabbed the nearest suit we could find. I didn’t realize it wasn’t my own until I already had it on, and there was no point finding whoever wore mine to swap it.” He looks surprised that she’s being so forthcoming, but the information is insignificant enough that she doesn’t feel the need to lie or deter the alien. It serves her purpose; she can convince him she's just a lowly engineer who stumbled across the Commander-Grade armour by accident during an emergency. The fact that the armour seemed to fit her like it had been custom made for her was just a coincidence. Turians couldn't know that humans weren't all made to a standard.

“And why were you left behind?”

“The last pod malfunctioned. I was the only one who could fix it.” It’s not a lie, _technically_ ; Donnelly was too drunk to do it. “I understood it meant I would be left behind.”

“A noble sacrifice.” The Turian sounds almost impressed. “You will be taken to our homeworld. The council will decide what to do with you.”

“You’re very forthcoming with that information.” Chakwas interrupts, an eyebrow raised. Shepard’s not sure if the Turian will understand the gesture, but he seems to understand from her voice. If she remembers correctly, the Turians’ flanged voice is on account of the second set of vocals they have; on a frequency only Turians can supposedly hear. They put a lot of stock in the tone of voice they use. 

“We do not treat our prisoners like wild animals. Surely better than you treat yours if it surprises you.” Is it just Shepard, or does the alien sound contemptuous as he makes an about-face and walks away from the cell. She turns to Chakwas, both women exchanging a look as they realize the depth of their situation. After a moment, Shepard sighs, tugging the wooden rosary out from her undersuit, playing with it as she makes herself comfortable.

“I’ll take first watch, I guess. Get some sleep, Doctor.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee chapter two. Thank you for the comments on the last chapter! I appreciate it.   
> Shepard's focus on religion is mostly due to her father-- he believed in Christianity, church twice a week, always wore the rosary Shep now has. She plays very fast and loose with the Christian Beliefs, and really only adheres to some aspects of it (memorising prayers like the Our Father and Hail Mary, carrying her Rosary, etc.) because it's a way for her to remember her family and connect to them.  
> Next chapter sometime this week hopefully!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Plenty of fun in the red light districts, Nih.” Nyreen purrs mischievously, and Garrus lets out a dry laugh, subvocals rumbling exasperation. The last time the three of them hit up the red light district, all three of their families had almost been removed from the council.
> 
> “We’re not hitting up the red lights again. Not without adult supervision.” Garrus says, and if Nyreen had lips like an Asari, she’d be pouting.

“So. What now?” Garrus leans back idly in his chair, fingers interlocked on his lap. Nyreen, Nihlus and Oraka also sit around the briefing room’s table, the elder letting out a displeased thrum of his subvocals.

“We didn’t capture anyone of importance. An engineer and a doctor. I’d thought perhaps we’d caught the Captain sacrificing itself for the ship but I was wrong.” Oraka sits up straight and glares at Garrus’ relaxed posture, and the younger Turian automatically straightens under the gaze of his C.O. “I’ll speak to the council, though I doubt they’ll do much more. Put them on the market, perhaps. With them being military personnel, they’ll go for a high price in the higher families.”

The Turians liked to play that it wasn’t slavery-taking humans and selling them off to the highest bidder in an attempt at funding the military. Garrus thought they were no better than the Batarians. The Council claimed it was a better alternative than throwing them in prisons to rot; the humans were fed and clothed and sheltered and in return, they served the house that bought them. Primarch Fedorian had three, most Council members hosted one or two aside from a few families, like the Vakarians. Castis had shown interest in getting one of the skilled ones instead of the common soldiers taken in battles, but none had yet come onto the market.

“We’ve achieved our main goal, at least. The _Arlessa_ will make the drop on Demeter tomorrow, infiltrate and decimate the military base the humans have set up there, and allow for recapture of the planet.” Oraka doesn’t even seem pleased by it; had they captured a high priority target, he’d have been lined up for a promotion and sent to the Citadel to play nice with the politicians. See that Asari everyone knows he’s obsessed with when they port at the civilized center of the galaxy. Now he has to wait until their next run to attempt taking a high priority target. “In any case, we’ve been ordered back home for mandatory shore leave in recognition of our last few missions. Kandros, get Chellick to set a course for Palaven, Cipitrine cargo dock seven. Unless we run into another human crew attempting a play at galactic war, you can all relax until we dock. Dismissed.”

Oraka leaves the briefing room, though Nihlus, Nyreen and Garrus remain in their seats. Nihlus is the first to speak.

“I really hoped this would be my ticket to the Citadel, I could log in for more Spectre training.” Nihlus groans, stretching out. Nyreen rolls her eyes, pulling up her omni-tool.

“I was hoping for shore leave on Omega, not Palaven.” She taps at her omni-tool absently- mind still on her job, monitoring the _Gauntlet’s_ communications. Garrus pulls up his own, sending a quick message to his father.

_Mission successful. C.D.7, 0900 c75.  
-GV_

“We’ll be getting shore leave, just not on the Citadel, or Omega.” Garrus closes out of his omni-tool, kicking his boots up onto the table. Oraka would hide him if he walked back in right now, but Garrus just jumped into space to rescue a damn human. He thinks he deserves to let the heavy mag boots metaphorically muddy (no mud in space) the immaculate table.

“Shore leave back home. The height of excitement.” Nihlus lets out a displeased rumble as Garrus’ omni-tool pings, and it’s unsurprising that Castis was so quick to reply.

_CD.7 means interesting cargo._  
I’ll meet you at the dock.  
-CV 

“Plenty of fun in the red light districts, Nih.” Nyreen purrs mischievously, and Garrus lets out a dry laugh, subvocals rumbling exasperation. The last time the three of them hit up the red light district, all three of their families had almost been removed from the council.

“We’re not hitting up the red lights again. Not without adult supervision.” Garrus says, and if Nyreen had lips like an Asari, she’d be pouting.

“Think I might buy that doctor.” Nihlus says conversationally, as though he hadn’t just changed the conversation from partying to potential slavery in three seconds. “Headstrong. Could be fun.”

At Nyreen’s disturbed trill, Nihlus tosses his datapad at her head, though she quickly dodges. “Not like that, Spirits, I’m not into that human fetish shit. It’s got wits. Doesn’t like taking orders from anyone but its own.”

"You don't need a human to attempt ordering around. You can try ordering us around and seeing what happens." Garrus mocks, and Nihlus knocks his boots from the table, sending the other sprawling as he's dumped unceremoniously from his comfortable position. Nyreen rolls her eyes at the two. All three of them had been childhood friends; while their parents indulged in council dinners and events, they were shooed off towards the grand indoor jungle gyms their houses had. It's times like these where she doesn't see X.O. Nihlus Kryik and Lieutenant Garrus Vakarian, but just Nih and Gar, two little Turians racing to see who can get to the crows nest first.

An uncertain burr emits from Nihlus' chest, and his eyes flick warily to the closed door and back. Both Nyreen and Garrus look at him curiously, before he heaves a sigh. "I want to learn more about humans. Maybe see if there's a way to stop this war."

The sound rumbling from Garrus' subvocals is one of confusion, echoed by Nyreen. "How is buying a human going to stop the war?"

"It's not. But-- I don't know, Garrus. Aren't you two sick of this already? If it turns into full-scale galactic war, it'll be worse than the Krogan Rebellions." Nyreen's shock shows on her face; she's never known Nihlus to be so... _unenthused_ about war. “It’s naïve as all hells to think it, but maybe if we understand each other better, we won’t be fighting like this much longer.”

"What brought on this change of heart?" She asks, subvocals thrumming genuine curiosity, reassuring him she is not mocking or angry. Nihlus stands, grabbing his datapad off the floor where it had landed. Taps at it a few times, before handing it to Nyreen. She sets It on the table between herself and Garrus, the two of them reading the files he's pulled up.

"Spectre training means I get access to restricted reports. Some of the Turian families that own humans..." A hand scratches absently at his forehead, sighing. There's a pit of growing horror as they read the reports, look over the graphic pictures.

"Torture, starvation, drugging, rape, black market organ harvesting, extensive, exhaustive and lethal labour, we're no better than the Batarians if this continues." Nyreen says quietly, and Garrus hums in agreement.

“They’re the enemy, but it doesn’t mean they should be treated like that. The servitude programs were supposed to keep them from the abuse so that when the incident is over they can go back to the humans without desecrating our name all over the galactic news.” Nihlus sounds troubled, and though the topic of conversation is grim, Garrus’ mandibles flicker in the Turian estimation of a proud grin. This is why Nihlus was going to make an excellent Spectre, even better than his mentor, Saren Arterius. He didn’t just give a damn about Turians, he gave a damn about everyone—even when they were supposedly the enemy. “The only thing I can do at the moment is save that Doctor in the quarantine cell from ending up with one of those families.”

“This is why you’re becoming a Spectre and Gar is playing arcade games where he’s the claw and spaced humans are his prize.” Nyreen stands, patting Nihlus on the shoulder and responding to Garrus’ disgruntled rumble with a self-satisfied chirp as she walks out the door.

“You think I’m being an idiot, don’t you?” Nihlus’ mandibles clench tight as he faces his long time friend, and Garrus, honestly, shrugs, kicking his boots up on the table again.

“I always think you’re being an idiot. But you wouldn’tve been picked for Spectre training if you weren’t thinking straight. I’m not gonna tell you what you can or can’t do, Nih.” Garrus hums. It seems enough to set his friend at ease, as Nihlus seems to relax in his seat, before nudging Garrus’ boots off the table again.

“You couldn’t tell me what to do anyway, _frater_.” The brotherly endearment is mocking, and Garrus laughs, kicking Nihlus’ chair before standing and leaving the darker-plated Turian to his datapad with a sloppy salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've played with Nihlus' background, had him born and raised in hierarchy space as opposed to outside it.  
> Turians seem to have roots in Latin, so I'm playing around with that a bit.   
> Clarifying some things brought up in the comments, thank you to those who asked the questions;   
> -I'm making up my military knowledge as I go. It's a space military. I do not feel guilty about it--that being said, it probably won't match up with current military runnings and may seem super outlandish but there's a purpose to anything I write! most of the time.   
> -The Council mentioned is the Turian Hierarchy Council, not the Citadel's council. I think I cleared that up in this chapter, but just in case I did a shitty job of it. 
> 
> Anyway thanks to Mods and screencaps, here's an [approximation](https://68.media.tumblr.com/30c18c1b74485dfce12ffb3e8ef950ec/tumblr_oopo5wY3dZ1uuoaglo1_1280.png) of what [Shep](https://68.media.tumblr.com/51d72afb568b3ad80441ad435d03b6f2/tumblr_oopo5wY3dZ1uuoaglo2_1280.png) looks like [although](https://68.media.tumblr.com/daabf549a796c2f9d4713ee8a52b3e6d/tumblr_oopo5wY3dZ1uuoaglo3_1280.png) her hair is much longer and whenever she's on duty her hair is pulled back.   
> Thank you for reading+commenting!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Engineer, the thing around your neck needs to come off too.” Garrus watches as it-she brings one hand up, wrapping around the cross protectively, eyes narrowing as she bares her blunted teeth at Nyreen, like she had the transport tech back on the ship.
> 
> “Not on your life, birdie. This rosary hasn’t left my neck since my father put it there twenty years ago, and it’s sure as shit not coming off for a Turian or five.” She snaps.

_The church is quiet, only interrupted by the murmurs of those leaving. The service has finished five minutes ago, but still, in the last pew, sits a man with thick brown hair and kind chocolate eyes. Arthritic and weathered fingers fiddle with the beads of a wooden rosary, the other wrapped around the head of a cane. His eyes are locked on the crucifix above the altar, though it is clear he is seeing something else._

_Until the silence is broken by the patter of small boots and calls of ‘Baba!’The man smiles, eyes drifting to his children, thundering into the church after one another, and he raises a hand to alert them to his position. His daughter arrives before her brother, four years old, clambering up onto his lap, one little hand playing with his rosary. His son is close behind, choosing instead to sit next to his father, poking his tongue out at his sister._

_“What’re you doing, Baba? Church is finished, s’time to go to the park.” The little boy insists, swinging his legs._

_“I wished to have a word with the Lord.” The older man replies, a playful twinkle in his eye._

_“About what, Baba?” His daughter asks, and his son pouts, petulant that she’s beat him to the question._

_“I was asking Him what I did to deserve such loud children.” For the seriousness in his voice, the children believe him, faces falling._

_“What did He say?” The boy asks, and both children are surprised when their father throws his head back and laughs._

_“You interrupted Him before He could answer.”_

_“Did not! It was Mira!”_

_“Nuh-uh, it was Jacob, he interrupted the Lord!”_

_“Was not!”_

_“Was--_

“Shepard?” Always a light sleeper, the minute her name is said, Shepard is sitting upright and alert, eyes falling on Chakwas as she shakes away the memory that had worked its way into her dream. “It appears we’ve landed.”

 “The Turian homeworld.” Shepard yawns, standing and working through a series of stretches, the minimal exercises that can be done in such a small space.

“So it would seem.” Chakwas stays seated, watching the cargo bay doors open. The light is near blinding after being down in the hold for so long, but Shepard’s eyes adjust after a moment to notice the captain from before walking down the ramp, returning a few moments later with five other Turians. She eyes them warily, but the Captain steps forward before her impulsive mouth can demand to know where they’re being taken.

“One of these walls will open momentarily—I do not suggest attempting to run, the radiation on our planet will no doubt kill you. Doctor Adrianus will be inserting an implant to administer anti-radiation medication. It will not activate until you’ve entered the decontamination center, and so again, I advise against attempting to run when we open the cell to let the doctor out.” His gravelly voice sounds almost bored, despite the alarming information he’s just delivered. Their own planet is a defense against humans, too harmful to even consider stepping outside unprotected, let alone running away and attempting to live off the land until a way off-planet could be found.

“Your medicine is not safe for us. If you’ll allow us our environmental suits and direct us to a lab, I can reverse-engineer a substitute.” Chakwas stands at parade-rest, eyes boring into the old Turian. Her demands go unheard, as the cell wall flickers a moment, allowing the Turian doctor to step in before it is powered up again. Shepard instantly falls into a defensive stance as Adrianus raises an injector gun and steps towards her, eyes flicking to her companion. She won’t make the first move and give them a reason to kill her.

“We synthesized _this_ from your own medicine, salvaged from previous missions. It will not kill you.” Adrianus says.

“Tell me how.”

Shepard remains on the defensive, waiting as the Turian doctor blinks in surprise before sharing the process with Chakwas. The human doctor nods, then, and only then, does Shepard relax, allowing the Turian to swab her neck with an antiseptic wipe before placing the nozzle of the injector gun to the skin there.

It takes everything she has not to flinch and swear a blue streak. The needle is sharper and rougher than it needs to be, likely repurposed from a needle needed to be strong enough to break through a Turian’s skin (hide?). He swabs medigel over the wound, before repeating the process on Chakwas. The older woman accepts it with dignity, though she still steps backwards as soon as the doctor is done. Within another moment he’s left the cell, and the other Turians are stepping around it, fiddling with the support beams.

“Where are we being taken?” Shepard asks of the captain, leveling him with a defiant stare.

“A decontamination and processing center. Your situation will be explained to you there.” That is the only answer she’s going to get apparently, as the captain turns to talk to three other Turians that have ambled out of the elevator. Shepard can’t understand a word they’re saying, and instead, crosses her arms, cocking out a hip. One of the Turians that had been tapping away at a console on the outside of the cell has paused in its work, looking up at her curiously. She raises her eyebrows at it, before childishly baring her teeth in an approximation of a snarl. It replies in kind, mandibles fluttering outward, needlepoint teeth far more terrifying than her own. Not that it frightens her; Anderson always said she was one part wickedly intelligent, three parts moronically foolhardy. She responds by raising her middle-finger, though the crude gesture is lost on the Turian. It instead tilts its head to the side, as though confused. The motion is oddly bird-like, and it makes her snicker as she turns back to Chakwas. The other woman raises an eyebrow at the childish behavior, and Shepard shrugs.

“Must you antagonize our captors so?” Chakwas asks, English rather than the Galactic Standard they’d been talking to the Turians with. The sound of it draws curious eyes, but Shepard shrugs, paying them no mind.

“It’s the only power I’ve got over them right now.”

* * *

 

“Vakarian, Kryik, Kandros. You’ll be accompanying the cell to the processing center.”

All three barely restrain the groans in the face of their C.O.’s order. Garrus can already see his father’s distinctive armour just on the dock, impatiently waiting for his son. He seems to be talking to— _Oh, Spirits, why’d he bring Solana?_

“Due respect, why us, sir?” Nyreen asks, hefting her sack from one hand to the other. Oraka’s already walking towards the elevator, not even turning as he answers.

“Kryik caught the doctor, Vakarian caught the engineer, and you go where they go.” The elevator doors snap shut before they can argue, and Garrus sighs, sparing a glance for the humans. The one he pulled from space is awake, standing with a hip cocked, arms crossed. She’s baring her odd blunted teeth at the tech setting up the hover-drive that’ll allow the cell to move, though she doesn’t flinch when the tech snarls back. Instead of being frightened, she waves one of her many fingered hands in an odd gesture he can only assume is crude, judging by the chuckle as she turns to the other, the two talking in their own language.

“I’ll meet you two outside? Dad and Sol are waiting, I’ll tell them to go home for now.” He grumbles.

“Here, catch.” Nyreen says, though she’s already tossed her sack at him. Nihlus’ mandibles flare in a grin as he catches on, throwing his sack on top. “Get _Patruus_ Castis to drop ‘em off at your place, we’ll come over once we’re done with the humans.”

“Yeah? Who says I want you two jokers around?” Garrus grumbles, attempting to balance his own sack with the two others, making down the ramp as Nihlus and Nyreen steer themselves towards the cell.

“We do, ya son of a varren.” Nihlus calls after him. Garrus rolls his eyes, finally coming to a stop in front of Castis and Solana.

“Has my son been demoted to cargo-hand?” Castis’ subvocals rumble _your answer better not be yes and if it is, what did you do?_ Garrus puts the three sacks down, nodding to Solana. She raises a brow plate in return, the trill of her subvocals echoing her father’s question.

“Hello to you, too. These are Nihlus and Nyreen’s. They’re going to come over for dinner, but we won’t be home right away, they’ve asked if you’d mind taking their belongings to our place until then.” He just manages to keep his voice respectful, and though Castis doesn’t seem pleased with the answer, his eyes flicking behind Garrus to find Nyreen and Nihlus, accompanying the hovering cell down the ramp.

“The cargo was humans?” Castis asks curiously, and Solana’s disinterested stance straightens, making to dash forward before Garrus holds a hand out to stop her.

“Humans? Garrus, move, let me see. Rana got one last week, she said they look like pink Asari, and that they cut their fringes—doesn’t that hurt?” She may be a widowed mother to two children, but sometimes, Garrus still sees the little girl who followed him around when he came home from the Academy, asking a thousand questions one after the other.

“Don’t, Sol.” Garrus pushes her back, albeit gently. “Yes, humans. A doctor and an engineer. Oraka wants us to escort the cell to the processing center before they’re put on the market.”

“They’re being sold.” Castis’ burrs, thoughtful. “Solana, take the skycar back to the estate, I’m going to go with Garrus and the others.”

“ _Pater,_ you’re not going to buy one, are you?” Solana groans, picking up all three rucksacks and balancing them with ease that Garrus hadn’t managed.

“Why not? We’ll meet you at home, Sol.”

“Right, I’m going to check in with Nihlus and Nyreen, follow us when you’re ready.” Garrus leaves the argument before it can start, turning to warn the others of the new addition.

* * *

 

The ride to the processing center is wildly uneventful, save for when the cell appeared to be hovering before being shoved into the back of a skytruck. Shepard keeps herself occupied, the relative isolation of the truck allowing her to talk to Chakwas, learning more about the other woman.

She’d been caught in the crossfire between the Turian ship and her own, though from what Shepard gathers, the Captain of the _Duchess_ was much more cowardly than Shepard, immediately voting surrender and to allow the ship be boarded instead of fighting back or escaping. The crew mutinied and fought back, and Chakwas had been caught by the dark plated Turian accompanying them before she’d made it to her escape pod. He’d offered to allow the last escape pod to go in exchange for her coming along quietly, and she’d accepted the deal, curious as to why he would bargain such. They were yet to see results.

The truck rumbles to a stop, and the cell hovers again, moving out of the container and down the halls of a clinical, hospital-like building. Shepard can’t read the writing on the doors, but she can figure out well enough. Decontamination and Processing, the captain had said.

The two male Turian soldiers that had accompanied their cell from the ship follow, and when the cell comes to a stop in front of a door, made of a heavy metal; almost like a jail cell door, Shepard glances at them curiously. The cell presses right up against the door, before that forcefield disappears. The Turian with the intricate white colony marks steps towards the cell, clearing his throat.

“The doctors ask that one of you step into the room for the decontamination procedure. The other will be in the next room.” He says in Galactic Standard. Shepard’s eyebrow ticks upward, exchanging a glance with Chakwas.

“How do I know this isn’t a trap? I’d rather not step into an iron maiden.” Shepard’s hands rest on her hips, staring down the Turian.

“What’s an _iron maiden?_ Never mind—it’s a simple decontamination routine, like when you step into an airlock after an excursion. It’s just a little more in depth to make sure you’re not carrying anything that could harm us or our planet.” He seems almost dumbfounded by her stubbornness, but she sighs, stepping into the room. The heavy door swings shut behind her with a sort of ironic finality, and Shepard makes a face at the steel, turning to examine the room she’s been put in. It’s rather small, glass windows on either side and in front of her, nozzles lining the seams and roof of the room. If it didn’t have the windows, she’d believe she was in the airlock of the _Mockingbird._ As it is, she can see Chakwas being deposited in the room to her left, and exchanges a look of exasperation at the other woman.

“We ask that all outerwear is removed and placed in the chute before you.” A new voice sounds over the speakers, as a chute pops out under the window in front of her. She realizes that the three Turians from the ship and two of the center workers are standing at control panels before her window, and she ticks an eyebrow upward before complying. Modesty often takes a diving leap out of the airlock after the first week of basic training, and the fact that she is before the enemy doesn’t bother her. _Like Anderson said. One part brave, three parts fool._

“That’s an… _interesting_ tattoo, Shepard.” The rooms aren’t soundproofed, so she snickers at Chakwas’ comment at her tattoo as she peels the undersuit from her skin.

“My roommate back on earth did it for me when I graduated the N—“ Shepard catches herself before she lets the _7_ slip, stuffing her undersuit into the chute, “— _gineering_ program.”

“Is there a meaning to it?” Chakwas has similarly stripped to her undergarments, and Shepard takes a moment to knock on the window, tugging at the strap to her standard issue bra.

“Hey, Velociraptor. These too?” _Anderson was going to upgrade it to four parts idiot by the time she got home._ The Turian in the lab coat nods, and she continues to strip it off, talking to Chakwas as she does.

“It started as a dumb reference to one of the old vids. But Jack took the notion and ran, and I trusted her enough to come up with a tattoo that wasn’t dumb.” The tattoo itself starts on her left hip; a black wolf on a cliff-face howling at a blue moon in the midnight sky. The midnight sky continues, winding around her waist and up her back, sliding up over her right shoulder and wrapping around her arm to mid-forearm. The midnight sky is about four inches across, the sides of it inked and shaded so that it looked as though the wolf had clawed apart her skin to reveal it. Interspersed through the sky were ethereal, ghostly birds in watercoloured pastels. It had taken Jack ten sessions to ink it all, and Shepard did not regret it at all.

 _So, am I the birds or the wolf?_  
_You’re both._  
_Does that make sense?_  
_Maybe, maybe not, I dunno, just fuckin’ say thank you, I don’t do this shit for free for just any fucker._  
_Thank you, Jack._  
_You’re fuckin’ welcome._

* * *

 

“What is _that_?” Nyreen chirps in curiosity at the colours that blend across the engineer’s skin as she turns her back to them.

“Colony marks?” Nihlus suggests, but Garrus shakes his head.

“The other one doesn’t have any.” He’s fascinated by it, as though a varren had clawed at her back, revealing the constellations and the spirits of winged creatures trapped beneath her skin. He’s not certain its colony marks, humans weren’t as bound to their colonies as Turians were, or had been once before.

“It’s still wearing that… thing around its neck.” One of the decontamination techs murmurs, pointing to the odd beaded rope around the engineer’s neck, and Nyreen sighs, tapping the intercom and speaking in Galactic Standard.

“Engineer, the thing around your neck needs to come off too.” Garrus watches as it- _she_ brings one hand up, wrapping around the cross protectively, eyes narrowing as she bares her blunted teeth at Nyreen, like she had the transport tech back on the ship.

“Not on your life, birdie. This rosary hasn’t left my neck since my father put it there twenty years ago, and it’s sure as shit not coming off for a Turian or five.” She snaps. Garrus barely contains the amused chuff of his subvocals at the fire with which she does, though Nihlus does no such thing, chuckling aloud. “It’s wood and rope. You guys have wood, I’m sure. You can scan it while it’s on me, there’s nothing in it that’ll be of any help, but I’m not giving it up.”

“Let her keep it.” Nihlus shrugs, arms crossed, mandibles fluttering in amusement. Nyreen cocks a brow plate, but taps the intercom again.

“Fine. Both of you; drop your arms and stand still. Let the decontamination procedure run, then dress in the garments provided.” She flicks it off, nodding for the techs to start the program as she turns and nods for the two men to follow her off to the side.

“So, still gonna buy the doctor, Nih?” She asks the dark-plated Turian, and he nods.

“I’m going to go speak to the center’s director now. I can just take her straight from the center rather than wait for her to go on the market.” Nihlus keeps his voice quiet, so as not to let the Techs in on their conversation. Garrus leans against the wall, arms crossed as he watches the Engineer.

She lets out a squeal like a Pyjak that’s had its tail stepped on when the cold spray of decontamination liquids hit her skin, and Garrus can’t help the chuff of laughter. It’s not condescending or mocking—it’s such a universal reaction to the cold that he can’t help the amusement. She’s cursing a streak at the techs that grabs the attention of Nihlus and Nyreen too, especially when the spray suddenly switches off and she wraps her arms around her midsection, fringe hanging in wet clumps around her face where it’s fallen from the odd lump on her head. She sends a powerful glare their way, body trembling with cold, and Garrus suppresses another laugh.

“Spirits help the family that she goes to.” He says, met by chuckles from Nyreen and Nihlus, though they’re cut off by a new voice joining the conversation.

“The Spirits won’t intercede for any family, let alone ours, Garrus.” Castis has walked in, unnoticed until he speaks, side by side with the center’s director. The words take a moment to sink in, and Garrus swears his mandibles fly open in shock.

“What do you mean, _our family_?” He asks, though he already knows the answer. Nyreen shifts uncomfortably, quietly excusing herself and Nihlus, though the latter catches the attention of the director and indicates to the other room, talking quietly.

“You’re not an idiot, son, you know what I mean. I just negotiated the price of the Engineer, it will come home with us once processing is complete.” Castis moves to stand at the window in front of her cell, and Garrus follows absently. She’s dressed in a simple tunic, leggings and the slender boots styled on the Asari’s. She has a towel in her hands, tugging at the lump on her head until her fringe ( _hair_ , he reminds himself) falls, the dark length of it to her waist, though she tips it forward and scrubs it roughly with the towel. One of the techs stumbles and catches himself on the console in his eagerness to get out of the way of Advisor Vakarian and his son, attempting to look like he isn’t eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Quite the find, I’m pleased to have been able to work out a price before it went on the market.” Castis _does_ seem pleased, though it leaves Garrus spluttering. They were no better than the Batarian pirates they hunted, now, and he barely restrains the furious sound from deep in his chest.

“Does Solana know you’ve _bought a human_? Do you think she’ll be happy having one around her children?” He asks, but before Castis can answer, there’s a loud _hey!_ And a rap of knuckles on the window in front of them. Both Turians turn to see the engineer at the window, arms crossed, a furious glare on its- _her_ face, and, though it’s so miniscule and gone so quick, a hint of fear in her eyes. It makes him cock his head to the side, trying to see if he imagined it or if it really was there.

“What do you mean, _bought a human_ , birdie? Are you slave-trading prisoners of war?” She demands of them, and Garrus realizes he’d absently answered his father in Galactic Standard. But still, she shouldn’tve been able to hear them without the intercom.

And then he remembers the stumbling tech, and looks down, noting the blinking intercom light. She taps the window again, getting his attention. Her glare might’ve made a lesser man quiver.

“Did you just buy me as a _slave?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beeboop I'll go through and properly edit this tomorrow. Shep's tattoo is a sneaky nod to _Colours of the Wind_ from Pocahontas, because that's what I was listening to when I came up with the concept for the chapter.  
>  _Baba_ is a nickname for 'father', commonly used in the Middle East. The Thane/Shep story I used with Mira outlines her background, but in case you haven't read it, here's a basic rundown;
> 
> -birth-5yrs; Shepard's born in Australia to middle eastern parents, under the name Samira Khalil, with her twin brother Jacob.  
> 5yrs; The family moves to Vancouver. A few months later, her parents die in an accident. The children are sent to live with an aunt before being put out on the streets.  
> 18 yrs: After experiencing discrimination based on their names, the twins go by Sam and Jake Shepard to enlist in the Alliance.  
> 20 yrs: Jacob goes missing presumed dead on a mission, and in memory of her brother, goes by an amalgam of her two names; Samira Shepard.


End file.
